All that’s lost when teens don’t work

At a back-to-school night this year, I chatted with a group of moms who had kids in high school. Their teens’ summers were filled with internships, service projects, sports camps, and more sports camps. Summer jobs? “Too hard to get.” “Not enough time.” “They won’t hire kids,” the moms told me.

All the moms in that group had worked as teens, and we agreed that our early jobs helped shape us. But today, American teenagers — especially here in the Philly area — largely aren’t employed.

According to the Federal Reserve Bank of St. Louis, the labor force participation rate for 16- to 19-year-olds was roughly 37% in August 2023. This wasn’t always the case. Forty-five years ago, more than 59% of 16- to 19-year-olds were working. Teen employment peaked in 1978 and has continued to decline ever since. Here in Pennsylvania, according to the Center for Workforce Information and Analysis, teenagers constitute only 6.3% of the commonwealth’s workforce.

The debate can rage about why teens aren’t working, but the more important conversation is this: What is lost from not having a job during your teenage years?

My first job was overseeing flip-flops and beach towels in aisle three at The Hand’s Store in Beach Haven on Long Beach Island in New Jersey when I was 11 years old.

I got the job for two reasons: Nobody wanted it, and my dad had just bought the store. Those were the same reasons I hated it.

Not even Charles Dickens could plumb the depth of misery that is trying to help sunburned tourists squeeze their smelly, sandy toes into the equally noxious plastic flip-flops. And don’t get me started on the Sisyphean task of folding and refolding dozens of piles of beach towels that those same tourists carelessly flung on the ground, while your dad peeks around the corner to see if you’ve tidied up yet.

Worse, I was with my father every day as he came to work early and stayed late. I was sure other kids were living lives of freedom — and I told my father as much — but my protestations went unheeded. My dad spent not a small portion of my childhood being gravely concerned that I was living a cushy life of comfort that his hardscrabble childhood could never afford. He credited his tough younger years for making him a success, and he was worried that success was now producing a cream puff.

I imagine my father looking at 11-year-old me lounging on a beach towel reading Sweet Valley High novels by the ocean while Madonna’s The Immaculate Collection blared from my Walkman and thinking, “If this keeps up, America will never win another war.”

His fretting wasn’t in vain. According to a study performed by Drexel University labor economist Paul Harrington, work experience in a formal job during high school corresponds to having a higher salary as a working adult.

Working at Hand’s as a kid taught me that college was not nearly as valuable as lived experience — and offered so much more than the data can pick up. I was especially enriched by the older men and women who worked at the store year-round.

Ruthie, who survived the Great Depression as a child and worked at Hand’s into her 80s, kindly taught me the rules around shift work — and that staying too long at lunch or showing up late to a shift impacted other people’s lives.

My first manager, Mr. Tamaro, taught me to quickly deduct percentages in my head during our summer sales and how to make change without the help of a machine when someone gave me $22.04 for an $11.89 charge.

Sherry, the main buyer for Hand’s, taught me to handle mean customers with grace. She was also a skilled businesswoman. I learned more from her about costs of goods, inventory, and merchandising than from any college professor whose class I took getting my business degree.

The positive impact these individuals made on my life and the lessons I learned have never been equally matched. When I was a teenage girl, my coworkers taught me not just how to work, but the value of work. Most importantly, they taught me to give profound respect and deference to working men and women.

Sure, my father likely skirted child labor laws by putting me to work at 11 years old. He also did me an enormous service. In Pennsylvania, kids can legally work at 14 years old. What a loss for this generation that we don’t make them.